


static space lover

by sads_owo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Constipation, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sads_owo/pseuds/sads_owo
Summary: a simple, stream of consciousness style story complete with shitty ironic song names instead of meaningful chapter and work titles. if you find swearing obnoxious then i'm so sorry but ... karkat is rude
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. the start of something

~ Karkat’s POV ~

Fuck. It worked.

All this loose change in my hands is going to embed on my skin that nasty ferrous coin smell - that shit stays around for so long that it might as well start paying rent. Like an idiot, I spent so much cash money on overpriced alcohol that there was nary a dollar bill left to separate my poor palm from the silvers and coppers. The burning adrenaline hasn’t stopped pooling in my stomach for fucking ages, since yesterday even, and I’m practically riddled with cold anxiety. Note to self: when the legal drinking age is twenty-fucking-one, which you are not, finding a gas station desperate enough to sell packs of funny juice to your baby-faced ass is one of the most stress inducing things since sliced bread, or at least that’s how I think it goes.

Walking out of the abominable gas station, and happily on a trajectory in its opposite direction, I shout so fucking loud. Knuckles dragged back and forth on my cranium like a tiny Donkey Kong is monkey-crawling to so many places on my skull. I whipped around. “If you fucking noogie me again, I’m calling the police and telling them you’re a criminal, and a bitch as well,” I spat at my friend. My god, that shit-eating grin. The “friend” in question, Terezi - or Miss Pyrope if you want to be all formal about it - replied through a tightly packed show of teeth, “Says the nineteen-year-old twink who just finessed booze from a gas station. I will prosecute you myself, sir.” She had a point, which pissed me right off (though in an affectionate way, because I’m not completely fucking heartless). I smiled; how could I not? A hypothetical onlooker might be able to guess that we are close friends, perhaps even childhood besties, considering that you have to be on pretty fucking good terms with your prey to get away with a noogie unscathed.

It’s 7 o’clock in the evening, not on the dot, leaving ample time for relocating because, wouldn’t you fucking know, I have better things to do than stand outside a gas station at this hour like a shitty NPC. Terezi and I start making our way back homewards; we are going to party. A little session, if you will. The occasion? Today marks the first day we’ve officially moved out of our parents’ houses. Into shitty shared university dorms, communal bathrooms and all, but freedom and independence and autonomy and all that, nevertheless. That’s right, we’re marking this lifetime milestone by illegally drinking so much with strangers in the hopes that the first impressions generated from this night will make the upcoming year tolerable. I hate to show it, but I’m quaking in my little fucking metaphorical boots from excitement. Meeting new people is one of my favourite things. I am an avid people-watcher, which is a valid pastime not only reserved for older folks, and I love collecting gossip and stories from anyone who will talk to me for long enough. It might be worth mentioning that, the pool of people who meet that requirement is quite fucking small because, despite exuding nothing short of charming and delightful, I have been described as intense in addition to a “mouthy little sailor-tongued fucker” (thank you, Terezi, very nice).

Terezi and I come within a stone throw’s away from the tall, concrete building in which our flat belongs to, on the top floor of course because climbing multiple stories of stairs is my personal idea of a good fucking time. Right off the bat, this scruffy asshole is trying to get in but failing horribly. Banging his head on the door and everything. He’s wearing fucking pyjama pants like it’s nobody’s business and that’s something I can respect. Approaching him, noticing that he smells like weed and poison, I accost the stranger and say, “You can’t get in by just pushing the door, dumbass, you need a card,” to which his brow knitted a weave of confusion, and to which his mouth knitted fuck-all because, my god, he is just completely silent. Exasperated, I sigh, “You did get a card right?” Dazed, he just exclaims, “The fuck kinda card are we talkin’ about?” Like the philanthropist I am, I even go through the trouble of digging out my own card, I needed to get in myself anyway, to show him how to access this building. There’s a sensor on the outside of the door. I place my card in front of it. Door opens. Random guy is just completely excited about this shit and limps inside and he utters, “Oh shit, thank you my god-damn brother. Really was almost left for dead out there. Never got one a those mother-fuckin cards I’ll tell you that,” to which I reply, “Look at the state of you, I can’t blame whoever the fuck didn’t give your ass a card.” He actually smiled at that and reached out for a fist-bump. I can’t not. We fist-bump. Terezi, the one-manned, jeering peanut gallery up until this point, joins in. Right now, this is triple fist-bump territory and it’s awkward, but only for a little bit. Terezi spouts, “Nice one bros. I’m almost tempted to call this a bit of a bruh moment, but that would be so fucking stupid.” Immediately, I guffaw and try to compose myself in the span of a few seconds. Pointing in the direction he clearly needs to go, I advise this guy to go to the administration hall and get his card, and he leaves with an inscrutable expression.

We just fucking burst out laughing because, my god, what a bizarre, but oddly fitting, interaction to set the precedent for the night. Ascending the stairs, I secretly swear to myself to go outside as little as possible to avoid much repetition of this ungodly climb. Terezi is thinking the exact same thing, I can tell just by looking at her sorry ass. “When I said I wanted to be a lawyer, I didn’t sign up for this shit,” she said through hoarse, infrequent wheezes. “I’ll write you a fucking sob story when I get my degree, if it pleases you.” She laughs at my hilarious snark. “What else can you do with an English degree anyway?” I feign outrage and internally admit that I really have no fucking clue. “Bet there’s loads of gays, though. Like, so many gays.” We pushed open the door to our flat, and I continued mindlessly rambling, “How many fellow queers are you gonna find on your fucking law cours-“

In front of me, what I can only describe as a long-limbed blonde twink stumbled back. I fucking bumped into him whilst droning on. “Shit, sorry. You good?” I kind of have to be polite, it was my bad after all, but I also kind of hate it. For some reason, he has these shitty aviators on despite being indoors and he adjusts them whilst replying, “No man, ‘sall good. You in this flat, shortstuff?” “I’ll stop being polite if you call me that, or anything like that, again. Yes, I’m in this flat.” He smells like whisky. “Sorry, sir. Forgot it’s weird to talk to strangers like I’m already their friend. I’m buzzed as fuck. Shit. I was just going out for a smoke.” He makes a peace sign. Terezi eyes him up and lets him know that we were heading to the kitchen. He nods and begins the arduous descent. Fucks sake. She always does this, always tries to set me up with every boy that we come across even though I don’t want her to and, besides, there’s no fucking chance this boy isn’t straight. I head to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy! i apologise for the dialogue, i know lines from different speakers are supposed to go on different lines but i can't find a way to format that on blocks of text that aren't fixed in size, i am a simple himbo. hope u enjoyed, more to come soon :]


	2. hand crushed by a mallet

~ Dave’s POV ~

Thank you, whisky, for hessian blurring the stairs. I’d be damned if my footsteps of descent didn’t make a way rude beat, though, giving me a few ideas for my next song, pretty sweet. Title it something like “IT KEEPS HAPPENING,” or something totally cool like that. I stop walking, whip out my phone and started recording. Needless to say, the world’s shittiest sample was taken when I carried on down the stairs. Can’t fuckin’ wait to use this. I exited the building and kind of chilled on the bench outside the doors, shaking my feet out of habit. A Marlboro was in my mouth for a hot minute, and then I couldn’t be bothered with it anymore. Smoking isn’t really my thing, but I like to think it helps when I get a little stressed because, fuck, I’m so happy about moving out. So happy that I’m nervous, you know? I reclined comfortably, realising the potential of this little bench as a sweet people-watching spot. Gotta love watching people. Just goin’ on with their days. I watch an approaching duo: this nerdy little fella with glasses walking next to this massive guy in goddamn pyjama pants. The size difference is hilarious. I need to wear pyjama pants in public more often because, my god, he is ballin’. He keeps fiddling with the lanyard around his neck, holding one a those cards you need to get into the building.

Well, shit, I start thinking about pretending to be on my phone but this is my first day of university and the slight liquid courage is making me feel real sociable. As soon as they come within listening distance, I blurt out, “’Sup, fellas? You both first years too?” Mr. Pyjama-Pants smiles and, my god what a loud voice he has, booms, “Fuck yes, brother. You’re chilling all up outside this building so you must be in these accommodations too?,” to which I nod. The little guy presses his glasses into the nook of his nose and says, “Nice sunglasses, douchebag, it’s not even sunny.” He has a lisp, and it’s kinda endearing. I can’t even be mad because the little shit has a point; it is overcast as fuck - all these clouds are up in here blocking that sun like it’s nobody’s business. Nothing will stop me wearing these bad boys though and I reply, “Bro, you don’t even know. My eyes are so pretty that anyone who sees them will immediately fall in love, so this is basically an act of charity, you dig,” and I’m awarded with a chorus of laughter. “I like your style, little mother-fucker. What flat are you in?” I respond to the big guy, “32, right at the fucking top.” His face practically lights up as, fuckin’ coincidence, he is in my flat. The little guy chips in, “I’m in a different building real close to here, this one looks way bigger. Lucky.” I get all warm inside because, did I really just make two pals that easily? Sweet. “I’m Dave, by the way, pleased as nothin’ to meet y’all.” In turn, I learn their names. Little’un is Sollux and the other, Gamzee. “Y’all got some rad ass names, those European?” More laughter because, let’s be real, that was dumb as fuck. I stand up to go back upstairs, that nice boy and his friend are chilling in the kitchen ‘pparently, and ask them if they wanna tag along with me. Hell yes. We ascend.

By the time we’d climbed over halfway, at this point I’m barely even tipsy anymore, we start to hear music. I can barely hear it but, with my musical expertise, I peg it as angsty indie music. We grin at eachother like kids, talk about fast friends. I fiddle with the lock to the flat, goddamn clumsy hands, and go to enter the kitchen. Before I let myself in, this girl with long black hair and thick-rimmed glasses stormed out, locking herself in her room. Nice, met another flatmate and she seems mighty sociable. The boy and girl from earlier are chilling by the table in the kitchen, like they said they would be. “Oh, it’s the asshole from earlier. Get over here.” Gamzee and Sollux emerge from the cramped little hallway, walk past me into the kitchen and, to my surprise, Gamzee yells, “Oh shit, it’s you! Got my card, homeboy, thank you for that,” and the short boy responds, “That’s fucking perfect. Love that for you. Come get a fucking drink.”

I might be misremembering à la liquor, but there is no way he was that loud earlier, fella’s bursting my ear drums and I’m a whole room length from him, I even hear him loud and clear over the music playing from the shitty little Bluetooth speaker. Such immense noise from someone so little. I tell him that. He curses me out (with a surprisingly large array of insults - dude has vocab for days), handing me a fuckin’ mystery drink in a plastic cup, to which I say, “I don’t even get a glass? No fine china? I’m not good enough for that?” “No, asshole, even if I did have fancy little glasses and shit your ass is still getting the plastic sippy cup. I know you’re okay with drinking since you smell like Jack fucking Daniels, so drink up,” he responds. At this point I’m wondering if I’ve done something to annoy him because he was a lot more… polite earlier. Girl next to him sighs in, quite frankly, a performative manner and looks at me, “Don’t worry, he’s always like this. You’re all good, my guy. It’s nice to meet you, you seem chill, what’s your name?” I humbly bestow upon them the knowledge of my name, and Terezi seems happy that it’s monosyllabic and simple to remember. The bundle of joy next to her butts in, “You don’t look like a fucking Dave, but okay, hi Dave. I’m Karkat – no, you can’t shorten that to a nickname – and this bitch here is Terezi.” I sit down next to Terezi, Sollux and Gamzee also take seats, and quip, “Oh, I don’t look like a Dave, huh? What do I look like, the man of your dreams?” I think about blowing a facetious little kiss but that might just send him into a flurry. To my surprise, he doesn’t respond, but he is clearly stewing in some torrent of rage over there. Blushing a little, which makes me wonder if he isn’t okay with jokes that are kinda gay. I mean, I didn’t mean it in a gay way, on account of being straight as a line and all, but some dudes get uncomfortable if you even pretend to hit on them. I don’t dare to pursue this line of questioning with him though.

“So…” I begin, “what’s in the cup?” Sollux, who I gather is pretty reserved, maybe a bit meek, a bit shy, perhaps a little introverted, takes a look into my plastic cup, only to find the liquid within is absolutely inscrutable. Complete enigma. He asks for a cup. “It’s called jungle juice. You know what that means, or does your dumb ass live under a rock?” I swirl it around curiously in the cup, responding, “I’m more of a whisky-ice guy, darlin’. Enlighten me.” “Okay, cool it with the fucking nicknames. It’s basically a mixture of every drink, non-alcoholic and alcoholic, in the room,” Karkat answers. He gestures to a large saucepan in the middle of the table that is clearly the container used for mixing said drinks. Not even a jug. I see some almost-melted ice in there though. I take a sip. “This tastes like a fruit that doesn’t exist, if fruit was also horrible and tasted like piss. I kinda like it.” Gamzee and Sollux are way fuckin’ ahead of me, dipping the cups into the pan for refills like animals. Terezi, looking most pleased with herself, says, “I’m glad y’all like my special punch. Making me feel like a real bartender over here.” She gets to talking with my new buddies ‘round the table. Out of excitement, I had kinda been blocking out the music in my head, but the track just changed, which caught my attention. You won’t fuckin’ believe what the track is. 

“Bro, oh shit, that’s 100 Gecs right there. Which one of y’alls playlist is this? Such great taste in music right there, I’m humbled.” At that point, Karkat rolled his eyes in such a melodramatic, theatrical way. Dude’s really going full on with his performance as he slams both elbows onto the table and grasps at the fluffy black hair around his temples. If you were playing charades and you had to act out ‘really fucking annoyed person,’ you could not do a better job than this guy. “No fucking way you’re being unironic with that shit. Oh my fucking god, I’m completely outraged. You can’t be telling me you like this shitty fucking band. Let me just say that this is my playlist, but-“ I just fucking light up. The grin I have on my face adds fuel to the fire as Karkat’s brow reaches maximum furrow. “Karkat, you like 100 Gecs? That’s so fucking rad-“ “NO, asshole. Let me fucking finish before you accuse me of such base behaviour. This is on my playlist as a fucking joke. A little bit of ironic Russian Roulette; you do understand irony, don’t you?” The innocent, furious look on his little face sends me. I burst out in a fit of laughter. He has no fucking idea. No idea how much irony is totally my thing. Up my proverbial fuckin’ alley. I imagine my sunglasses glinting under the overhead lights. This is going to be a fun night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chappy hehe i don't proofread these before i post them so if there's any mistakes that's my bad - if u let me know ill fix em tho =]
> 
> if u somehow haven't heard of 100 gecs, go listen to stupid horse and maybe drink a monster or smth, good times will be had. it's ironic though i swear,,,


	3. boys will be bugs

~ Karkat’s POV ~

I had to leave as soon as possible. We had been shooting the shit for hours over dubious “liquids” and it’s been what I would generally refer to as a fucking ball, but my chest ached so hard. Terezi could already tell what was up because she provided an excuse for me to go to my room, something stupid but reasonable like I looked really tired. I shot her a thankful glance, she shot me a thumbs-up. Leaving Gamzee, Sollux and that jackass Dave in the kitchen, I quickly scurried back to my small room, hand over heart. As soon as I locked myself in, the binder came off and it felt like my entire fucking thorax swelled. It left a shitty, dull pain in its place; a much more merciful sports bra, oversized jumper and soft shorts were the name of the game. I answered a text from Terezi checking that I was all good and, not to be a sappy little bastard-man, I had a warm feeling in my heart. I had been so fucking sick with anxiety over today, worried that I wouldn’t make any friends on my first day and that I’d be living with people I couldn’t get along with or, even worse, fucking bigots. But everyone, even the guy that isn’t in this flat, they all seem super fucking chill. So much weight off my chest. Well, the exception would be that bitch, pardon my French, from earlier. I remember playfully calling her something like ‘asshole’ or ‘jerkoff,’ not meaning it like always, and she got all super pissy about it. Everybody who knows me understands that it’s just a habit of mine. I guess I should fucking apologise in the morning or something but, Christ in a hand-basket, I told her I meant it good-naturedly because some people don’t understand that kind of stuff at first and I’d hate to make someone like that uncomfortable just because they missed a cue from a stranger. It did fuck-all to ameliorate the situation though; she completely came across as the type of person who seeks out drama on purpose – my favourite fucking kind of person, not. It had been on my mind since then, but being in the kitchen with everyone else soothed my anxieties. Better not to dwell on it because, all around, my first day was pretty fucking great.

Waking up was, by all accounts, not pretty fucking great. Before hitting the hay, I didn’t have the energy to drink any water. Consequently: dry mouth, throbbing tension headache, being able to tangibly feel my wretched workaholic liver… I hastily scarf down two painkillers. Not only that, but waking up in a completely new environment was really fucking jarring. My dorm bed, which I had set up in the early hours of the previous day, really gave ‘sleeping on a rock slab’ a fucking run for its money, and I accepted the inevitability of early-onset arthritis. The rest of my room, however, hadn’t yet been adorned with my prestige power of decoration and design, leaving it looking like a motel you wouldn’t fork over more than a single-digit quantity of bucks for. Boxes containing personal possessions and such sat at the foot of my bed. Wonder how long it’ll take me to get around to actually fucking sorting that out like a functioning person. I put socks on and head to the kitchen. Aforementioned girl from yesterday is sitting by the table along with Dave and another person. The latter person has short black hair, glasses and, good Lord, they are just sitting there and exuding friendliness - without even uttering their first damn word. Let it be known, however, that I’m not a complete asshole. “Good morning, chuckle-fucks. Hope you all got sleep as good as I did on these luxurious bed-slabs.” Dave shot me a tired look that pierced the sunglasses he was wearing for no good reason. The spectacled stranger giggles and says, “I brought a foam mattress topper with me, so I actually got very good sleep! I don’t think I met you yesterday, what’s your name?” What a ray of sunshine. I’m not even being wholly sarcastic for once; these kinds of people are a breath of fresh air. We exchange names, I learn that their name is John and he uses ‘he/they’ pronouns and, immediately, I’m a little relieved to find another gender non-conforming person. That was nice and all, but the horn-rimmed glasses-wearing elephant in the room needs to be fucking addressed. I bring the girl aside and say sorry – I don’t want to make any drama this early in the year. What pissed me off a little was how self-satisfied she looked before absconding.

On account of living here for a grand total of ‘barely one day,’ the only real breakfast option in the cupboard is a granola bar. I bring it back to the table, Dave inquires, “Hey, bro, what was that all about? If you don’t mind me askin’ an’ all, that is. Good morning, by the way, you look kinda tired. Hungover, even?” “First of all, I’m not fucking hungover, or tired for that matter. I am perfectly fine,” I blatantly lie. “And, to answer your question, I really don’t know how, but I pissed her off yesterday. I don’t even know her name and she was trying to be all dramatic with me, so I said sorry just now.” “Yeesh, that’s rough. I don’t even know her name either, but I bet she has some funny white girl-shit name. Maybe double-barrelled or even named after an emotion. Bet a dollar on her being called, like, Happeighness.” He takes at least half a minute fumbling to spell that out for us. I laugh and call him stupid, because he’s fucking stupid. Straight boys can be a little funny as a treat, I guess, John butts in, letting us know that her name is ‘Vriska’ and they actually thought she was, to quote, “pretty nice!” This, however, means little when the said John in question radiates this puppy-energy that no conscionable person could be mean to him the first place.

It's pretty cruel that orientation and stuff like that is on the second day of everyone moving here; I know for a fact that I’m not the only poor bastard who woke up with a headache. Dave, I only just found out, somehow, is on the same course as me? This utterly blows me away because he doesn’t look like the type of person to drool and hunch over poems or fucking Jane Eyre, as all English (Language and Literature, by the way, merged for some godforsaken reason) majors are known to do. We’re all just talking while walking, which is nice. Our troublesome trio became a duo and a solo shortly after finding the way to our respective orientations; John’s was far off in another building for his Film Studies themed start to the day. There are worse things than spending my first actual day here with a swaggering heterosexual boy I have known for less than 48 hours. For example, a worse thing I could experience would be getting both of my arms blended. “So, jackass, how come you’re taking English? No offence, but you don’t really look like the type, I can’t explain why.” Dave eyes me through his fucking sunglasses - which are at least suitable for the current time and weather – and replies, “Bro, you’re telling me? You look like a fuckin’ little manly rugby player or something. Thought you were, like, a Sports Development bro. If anything, you’re the one that doesn’t look like an English student.” I’m not going to tell him this, but hearing that he thought I was masculine made my heart fucking soar. It’s like he used a secret cheat code, ‘make Karkat happy and become less of a grouchy douche.’ I smiled, yeah, I know, gross, “I guess we’ll find out who fits in when we finally fucking walk in this building. I think this is the right one.” Dave asks me if I’m okay because that was a long walk and I have “little legs” and all the work he did to get me to warm up immediately dissipated… I call him an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HBNSDJHBFH DONT ASK MY DUMBASS HOW I WRITE SO MUCH YET THE CHARACTERS DO SO LITTLE, peepee poopoo, thank yall so much for reading hehe =]


End file.
